


what the hell is (tragedy)? i am

by birminghams (romantiser)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantiser/pseuds/birminghams
Summary: “Are you hurt?”Tommy’s voice is low against the myriad of gunfire that’s raining down on Birmingham, the swell of anger growing in his chest as the scent of gunpowder fills the air. He finds himself resting up against you, shoulder to shoulder as his hands pat down the length of your body, checking for any visible injuries that sent you hurtling to the ground before he’d managed to cushion the fall.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby & Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Kudos: 43





	what the hell is (tragedy)? i am

**“ARE YOU** hurt?”

Tommy’s voice is low against the myriad of gunfire that’s raining down on Birmingham, the swell of anger growing in his chest as the scent of gunpowder fills the air. He finds himself resting up against you, shoulder to shoulder as his hands pat down the length of your body, checking for any visible injuries that sent you hurtling to the ground before he’d managed to cushion the fall.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, voice barely audible.

Tommy’s shaking his head, eyes meeting yours and then everything else around you dissolves into nothingness. He pulls you into him, exhales the weight off his chest and uses his hand to press down hard on your side, flinching as you groan in pain.

“I need you to stay still.”

“Tommy—”

“I need you to be quiet for me,” he murmurs then, lips brushing up against your temple. Tommy feels you shiver against him, and he pulls you in closer. “It’ll be over in a second, I promise, but I need you to stay still for me. Can you do that?”

Except Tommy doesn’t wait for a reply.

He calls out to the endless sea of bodies swarming him, to anyone who might hear his pleas, to someone who can help with the ‘fucking hole that’s bleeding out’ but the smell of death seems to linger in his voice. His words start fading into the backdrop of the violence that’s descending on them. The family that’d taken you in as one of their own.

And then there’s blood; there’s so much blood.

It’s on his hands, slipping through his fingers and painting his nails in a harsh red that almost steals a strangled sob straight out of his scratchy throat. He’s clinging to you while the blood gushes out, taking your life with it as it turns the Garrison floor into a horror movie and the world doesn’t seem to stop spinning.

“It’s my blood, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods.

He doesn’t trust his words, so he breathes you in instead.

Everything slows down then, the moments dragging out in a torturous display that’s almost enough to have him begging and pleading to a God that he doesn’t believe in. He can feel you visibly weakening against his skin, body slumping against his frame as you fight against the welcoming darkness offering you a peaceful transition into the next step; into a universe that will no longer let you exist alongside him.

“How bad is it, Tommy?”

But then the smell hits you, and it crumbles like a tragedy.

It’s sickeningly harsh, the metallic tang lingering in the dense air, the lightly rusted iron permeating through the gaps in your ribcage: a scent that’s consuming your brittle bones into something that resembles a nightmare neither one of you can wake from. Tommy can’t breathe against the stench of it as it settles itself on his sternum, choking him every time his lungs beg for release. Instead, he focuses on you and the way you smile at him, honing in on the simple fact that this might be the last time he’ll see the dimples in your cheeks and the last time he’ll hear you inhale to exhale again.

It breaks and then mends and shatters again.

If he could trade places with you, he’d do it.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, but he’s not sure what the platitude is for, and it’s too empty to fill the space between you. “I’m so fucking sorry. It’s not meant to be like this. Not you. It should have never been —”

“Tommy, that you?”

John appears over his shoulder then, face grim with blood smeared over his cheeks. He’s observing the way Tommy’s shielding your body with his own and then it’s pretty easy to pinpoint the exact moment his gaze falls on the gaping wound, the blood pouring out faster than your body can replace it. He’s at your side within seconds, pulling off his shirt and placing it underneath Tommy’s hand; the same hand that’s holding your insides into the confines of your body instead of on the ground as they should be.

“It won’t fucking stop.”

“Tommy—”

“Why won’t it fucking stop?”

“Shit,” John replies, fingertips brushing the stray hairs out of your face as you turn away from him. He tries not to flinch when he notices that his shirt is no longer white like it’s supposed to be—now it’s a dark red that’s dripping with blood—and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. “How the fuck did you get hit?”

“I never did know how to stay out of trouble.”

Tommy breathes out a laugh, but it’s too forced, too fake, too unlike himself. “I told you to stay inside.”

“I thought I could help. I didn’t know how to before—”

“Someone better find Polly and get fucking Ada over here. We need fucking help, there’s so much blood, and no, no, no,” Tommy cuts himself off, turning back to you as you start to drift off in his arms. He gently shakes your body, stirring as he stills against the dark backdrop of his worst nightmare brought to life. “Fuck no, come on, you gotta keep those eyes open for us. I need you to stay awake for a little bit longer.”

“Tommy,” you exhale in a slow breath; “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he murmurs, “but don’t close your eyes.”

It’s like this: Tommy’s holding you close, his heart beating erratically against his ribcage. It’s echoing in his ears; the only reminder that this is his reality; that you are dying in his arms and there’s nothing he can do about it. He thinks about praying for salvation. About trading his sins for your life. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s not religious. All he cares about is the fact that you’re dying in his arms and all he can do is watch as your life slips away.

“I always thought of myself as a burden.”

He shakes his head. “How can —?”

It’s an unspoken revelation that falls into the short space between where your bodies rest and an admission that occupies the pause before his next heartbeat. He watches as your chest rises and then falls with each breath you struggle to draw in. His hands are still coated in blood; rust smeared against his pale skin as he hooks his fingertips around yours.

“It was before Grace.”

He doesn’t ask any questions.

He’s not sure he really needs to. He remembers the baby-faced charmer that followed the Blinders around, questioning everything, flirting with him at every chance. He’d asked around about you; found out the history behind the wit that dripped from your lips, about your siblings, parents. He’d been wary of allowing a stranger to blend into the family folds of the Shelby clan, but he was outvoted before he had the chance to object.

“Did you really try and dig up dirt on me?”

He shrugs; as if it’s a given, saying, “I protect my family.”

It’s an acknowledgement that you hadn’t adequately confirmed until now. It’s been a few months since your parents called you up claiming a strange man had been questioning them about you in regards to a job you’d apparently applied for; someone who wore a cap and had eyes that brought a chill to their bones. He’d found your skeletons, but gone was the arrogant, selfish man determined to belittle you in front of everyone.

He was no longer concerned with driving you out.

“Are you —?”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

He doesn’t reply at first.

It’s unexpected; unwarranted. He keeps his gaze firmly locked on the wound that’s still continually bleeding against the palm of his hand, the warm ichor taking inches of your life with it and all he can do is let it. He can’t save you. There’s this weight on this chest; something he hasn’t felt since Grace. He wants to indulge in the fantasy of what-ifs, but there’s no time for that now.

Not when his heart is breaking all over again.

Not when he can feel you slipping away.

“Would you stay with me?”

He chokes back his emotions with a small cough, leaning down to press his lips against your cheek. He can’t bring himself to kiss you on the lips, not yet, not when he can’t be sure that this is what you want, not when he can’t be sure that you’ll make it.

“Always.”

But your lips are turning blue; skin growing paler as the gunfire amplifies into a crescendo before it fades into a silence that’s almost as deafening. It consumes you until Polly is suddenly pushing her body through the small gap in the crowd, Ada hot on her heels and the rest of the Blinders surrounding you in a circle, all of them wishing for a miracle as you lie in a pool of your own blood.

“I love you,” you say again.

It sounds too much like a goodbye.

“No, no, no,” Tommy retorts quickly, voice breaking under the strain of his own emotions. “Don’t you know it’s me that loves you? Don’t you know that?”

Polly grits her teeth; barking orders.

Her voice is muffled like she’s underwater. Her hands reach out for you, but you can’t feel it. The numbness has spread too quickly, paralysing you as the fear and grief starts to mount. Limbs heavy, heart racing, it’s easy to let your eyes fall shut.

“Tommy?”

He doesn’t move; he can’t.

It’s Grace all over again. He couldn’t save her, either. Everyone who gets too close seems to leave him in the end, and he doesn’t learn his lesson. His heart should be locked away; never to see the light of day again. At least then the ones closest to him will be safe; guarded against stray bullets; guarded against him.

“I need you to move,” Polly murmurs, hand on his shoulder. “If you don’t; I won’t be able to help.”

It takes John to pull him away.

His white shirt is ruffled, soaked in blood. He can feel it sticking to his skin as John guides him to a few feet away, shrouded in the shadows as Polly and Ada get to work on stopping the bleeding. His chest is aching, heart heavy as his eyes meet Arthur’s; his brother is crestfallen, crumbling at the sight of his your body at his feet. Tommy never did quite understand the friendship you shared with Arthur; you didn’t have anything in common and yet, in his darkest hours, Arthur leaned on you.

Arthur is the first to look away.

“I can’t go through this again,” Tommy admits, voice hoarse. “Not again.”

Burying Grace was hard.

Watching you die is even worse.

He can’t tear his eyes away from where you’re laying on the floor, Polly leaning over you as Ada continues the chest compressions, pumping a flicker of life back into you. His body feels oddly light; like it doesn’t belong to him. It’s an out of body experience: one that separates the tragedy from reality.

“It’s me that loves her.”

John rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

“It’s me that fucking loves her. It’s me that **—”**

He falters as Ada crumbles, her hands falling away from your chest. She doesn’t start the compressions again. Polly guides her to Arthur’s open arms; quickly resuming in her fight to save your life. One minute blends into the next and it feels like a lifetime before Polly turns to him, too, face void of hope, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Don’t fucking stop! Don’t fucking —”

Polly’s across the room within seconds. “Tommy.”

“Don’t fucking make me lose her too!”

Polly reaches up, taking his face between her hands. It’s gentle, tender; where she loses herself in the sorrow clouding his bright blue eyes, haunted by the agony, death and grief that surrounds him. Tommy is rarely the first one to break eye-contact, but this time is not like the others. This time he pulls back before Polly can see the silent tears his body is beginning to shed.

“Tommy.”

The familiar urge to run is clawing at him; turning him inside out. It’s silent now, a weird sort of disquiet that rests heavily on him, making it harder to hear the rough, haggard breathing stealing the remaining energy from you. He blinks, once, twice, hoping that it’s another nightmare he can wake up from, a phantom fear that’ll disappear and take this hurt with it.

“Tommy,” you whisper.

He’s at your side within a second, hands gripping onto you. He’s drowning, and you’re his anchor, except the anchor is never meant to break, not like this. Never like this. He’s resting his forehead against yours: he whispers platitudes that Tommy doesn’t believe in, but it’s the only thing he can think of to calm you down. It’s dark out; stars blinking against the blanket night sky, fog hanging low as his world implodes.

“Tommy,” you murmur again, falling limp.

Then all he can do after that is watch how your trembling hands finally stop shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted over on my [**tumblr**](http://birminghams.tumblr.com/).


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